


The Full Nine Innings

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Series: HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills [13]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coitus Interruptus, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Fuck Or Die, Humiliation, M/M, POV Third Person, Troll Bro - Freeform, Trollstuck, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's drone season come again, and considering the number of sweeps Bro and Cronus have been matesprit-hitched for, they might as well just whip off their pants and perform the copulation rites. Bro has better ideas. If they're going to have a voyeuristic third in the respite block once a rotation, he thinks they might as well make a show of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Full Nine Innings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glowcloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowcloudy/gifts).



> Written for the first bonus round of the 2014 [Homestuck Shipping World Cup.](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/) The prompt was "Remember when the drones came for Bro and Cronus and they made such a show out of it that the drone got confused and just left with nothing" with troll!Bro.
> 
> I'm sort of sorry for Bro's "troll name," I couldn't resist the "Bro Dick" joke because Bro is a dick, haha, it's funny, but don't worry it shortens to "Bro" in the prose within about three repetitions. This is precisely what it says on the tin and I'm not sorry.

-

Brodic has a thread between his teeth when the humming starts, the needle it's attached to pinched between his claws. Cronus is cross-legged on the floor of the hive, strumming idly at the strings of his guitar with his own clawtips and managing only to coax out a few discordant notes as he mutters softly under his breath. Working on a new song, would look like the winning wager. Brodic doubts they could look more domestic if they tried. 

The humming picks up, and he doesn't need to peer through the blinds of his hive's window to see that it's the approach of the drones. Brodic (Bro, to anyone he happens to like) pries the slats apart with two fingers anyway, able to see a lone black speck flying low over the horizon. 

"Showtime," he announces, tossing his sewing project to the side without care. 

Cronus is up from the floor in a second, though he sets his guitar to the side far more gently than Bro tossed the plush he'd been constructing. He whips his shirt over his head in an instant, stomach muscles flexing just visibly and mmm, there's suddenly a lot more smooth gray skin than he'd had to admire just moments before. He's on a schedule, but he allows himself a second of enjoyment, before hooking his fingers in Cronus' belt loops and yanking him close. 

"Aren't you gonna do mine?" he purrs, with a just-audible clicking undertone picking up as the sound rattles out of his throat. Cronus' earfins shiver, and that's good, they're good, they're gonna sell this thing like it's the Alternian Empire Bridge to some bumpkin without the cells in his pan to know they haven't got the goods. 

"Talk about mad rude, only taking care of yourself, I thought you were a gentleman." 

"I'm getting there," Cronus huffs, with a little shake of his head and a toss of his horns. Vain little peacock – not a hair falls out of carefully-styled place, and Bro can't fault him because he's cornered the market on narcissism himself long ago and god only knows he's into the way Cronus is pretty. "Hold your hoofbeasts." 

Bro chuckles, low and amused, his eyebrows going up. Way to try and turn that one on him. But he lets Cronus yank up his shirt, rolling it off of him as Bro backs them toward the hive door. He reaches behind himself the second it's off, turning the handle and pushing open the door, and for a second they both nearly trip off the tiny front stoop and fall sprawling onto the grass of Bro's lawnring. Which is where they're headed in the end, but he'd rather not have his tailbone bruised if he can help it.

"Alright," Bro whispers into Cronus' mouth, before kissing him once with a flair usually reserved for the particularly torrid silver-screen romances. "Remember, we've gotta sell it." 

"I vwas born to sell this kind of thing," Cronus murmurs back, but Bro kisses him harder right after, and he doesn't have the freedom to elaborate further. 

That's when the drone lands on the lawn, with both Bro and Cronus loudly ignoring its arrival. The enthusiasm of the kissing Bro is laying down is full of audible wet smacks, full of sloppy peeks at his tongue shoving into Cronus' mouth and the answering response of Cronus' tongue shoving right back. Bro reaches up to run the pads of his fingers along the top tines of one of Cronus' fins, and the reactionary purr from his throat only opens his mouth wider to plundering. Bro can feel the assessing eyes of the drone on both of them, like lasers homing in. 

"God babe, I want you like skies want stars," Bro mutters loudly, in between messy kisses, and introduces his tongue again to the outskirts of Cronus' throat to muffle him from any laughter that might've seeped out. He nearly gets his tongue bitten clean off for his trouble – that's what he gets for using a shitty line from the absolutely shitty porno they'd watched the dawn before. 

Bro works Cronus' fins over with his fingers, his other hand planted square on Cronus' ass and squeezing roughly right in front of the drone's line of sight. He adds his theatrical moans to the very genuine ones he's coaxing out of his matesprit, relying on the natural sensitivity weaknesses of seatrolls to work at least one of them up fast and easy. As close as they're pressed, he feels it when Cronus' bulge unsheathes all at once inside his pants, pressed up against Bro's thigh through the other troll's too-tight jeans. 

"Oh god," Cronus whines, and that one's not meant to be from any skinflick. 

"Got you covered," Bro murmurs back, genuine, tacking on an extra, "Got you so covered, gonna pail you right into the grass," to keep them on point. 

Cronus is gone enough with arousal that even that shitty dirty talking gets him a pretty whimper. Bro reaches down, starts yanking at Cronus' pants, feels more than sees the echoing hands of his matesprit fumbling his fly open as well. The humming from the drone has started up again, which is interesting – Bro thought they only did that when they flew. Maybe sometime he'll be able to crack one open, paw through its guts and see how they tick, but he knows he'll only manage if its already dead and who the hell knows where those things crawl off to when they need to die.

Both their pants drop in the same moment, Bro mirroring the aggression with which Cronus shoves down so that they're moving at each other in tandem, before Bro topples the other troll to the grass. He lets Cronus flip them over so he's the one on his back – just to script – and groans when Cronus arches his back and drives his bulge forward to squirm as far up Bro's stomach as the bottom of his pecs. Cronus kicks his pants off, and Bro gets just one leg free, hooking it around Cronus' waist and pulling them back hip to hip, rolling them again so Cronus hits the ground hard. Bro can feel the breath startled out of Cronus gust on his face. 

"Come on, get on vwith it, stop being a huge, obvwious tease and put your enormous brovwnblood bulge in me, I need it so bad I could burst," Cronus practically shouts – they never knew, drones might be deaf – canting his hips up so his bulge only just delicately curls against Bro's undilated sheath, squirming over it and not even trying to creep down toward his nook. 

"You don't say," Bro drawls, leaning in to croon the words right into Cronus' ear, his hot lowblood breath wafting over cheek and neck and delicate fin membranes. "I bet I'll just barely get it in you, desperate as you are, and you'll gush everywhere so fast we'll never make the bucket." 

The drone hears that, its intermittent humming shifting to a higher angry buzz, and Bro has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "It'd be such a damn shame," he continues, more for the drone's benefit than Cronus', though he's starting to get far too into the show. "Over so fast we don't get to have any fun at all. Better grab a pail now so we can play a little before you come apart at the seams." 

He sits up just enough to turn and spear the drone right in its flattened-in face, leveraging his expression alone as imperious demand. Mechanically, the thing holds out the bucket it's been gripping all along. Bro slaps it down hard on the other side of Cronus' head, his natural strength forcing the rim of it right into the soft earth of the lawn. 

"You want me to make you pour, don't you?" Bro resumes. "Just splatter this thing with violet like it's monsoon season in the lowlands and the rain's come early? You want me to take you apart." 

Cronus' pupils are blown so wide, Bro can't even see the purple. 

Bro strokes his hand up Cronus' cheek, slides his fingers into Cronus' hair to grip around the base of his horn. He pulls Cronus up just enough to drag him toward the filial pail, heavier and less ornate than the pretty ones Cronus likes to use when they're alone. 

"Show me how much you want it," he says. "Go on, lick it, show me what you'll do with my bulge if I let you at that instead." 

The buzzing from the drone starts up again, louder still, with an extra underlying grinding like a wrench wedged in some horrific industrial machine. Bro is pretty damn sure these pails never get replaced, and the one he's guiding Cronus' mouth toward has been covered in generations of spunk in its time. That's when his loins give their first real, rousing throb, pulsing a hot point of interest in the new events going down. 

Cronus opens his mouth, drags his tongue along the underside of the bucket's rim as Bro's hand guides him along, makes a low moan that Bro knows is all for his own benefit. Not that it matters. His junk responds as if Cronus really were into giving the metal a tongue-bath all on his own. 

As Bro murmurs, "Yeah, that's the ticket," with all the sincerity in the world, the drone gives a high-pitched, machine-failure shriek, followed by the agitating flicking and buzzing of its wings. 

Bro is selling it like hotcakes and he doesn't even need to try any more. 

"Bet you could scrub down the inside, too, with that pretty tongue," he says, turning Cronus' face back up for the moment to make damn sure their eyes lock. "Get it real spit and polished along that tiny little strip at the top that's all we're gonna see bare once I fill this with every last spurt of your spunk I wring out of you." 

Down goes Cronus' head again, helpfully pushed by Bro's hand now relegated to the back of his skull. He rubs his tongue all along the inside of the pail's rim, tilting his head back as far as it'll go so his face gets to the optimal angle. Bro cards his claws through Cronus' hair, reaches his other hand down between Cronus' legs to discourage Cronus' bulge from thrashing any harder against his stomach by giving it fingers to twine around instead. 

The drone makes a sound like a chainsaw revving to start, trailing off into its usual buzzing as its wings kick back into gear, its knees bending before its clawed feet kick it into the air. The buzzing recedes as it beats a hasty retreat. 

"You can keep going," Bro says, voice still laced with a bit of an edge, palm still braced against the back of Cronus' head. Cronus' bulge squeezes the fingers of his other hand like Bro's a lifeline. 

"Ugh, not vwith that, you didn't tell me vwhen vwe planned this that I vwas going to havwe to lick anything this disgusting," Cronus protests, lifting a hand to shove at the pail.

Magnanimously, Bro lets his matesprit's head go. "You think we get to keep it?" 

"You can keep it," Cronus says, sounding a little plaintive and disgusted still. 

Bro knows he really just likes his pretty pails better. 

He peels his fingers free of Cronus' bulge, pats his matesprit's hip and kisses him on the mouth gently and in careless spite of where it's just been. Still tastes like Cronus to him, bitter seatroll spit and the cool confines of a familiar mouth. 

"You're not evwen going to get me off nowv are you?" Cronus asks, his mouth twisting in a distasteful pout. 

"Thought you were working on a song," Bro says. "Besides, you take fuckin' forever to run the full nine innings. That's the whole reason we planned to skip out on the exhibitionistic little peep show this sweep. Hell, that really worked, didn't it?" 

"It really did," Cronus agrees, slowly breaking into a marveling little grin. "Vwe pulled it off." 

"Damn right we did," Bro says. He stands, pulling up his pants and buttoning his fly. "C'mon, once you get the lyrics just right, I'll fill the extra-large trap I fuckin' installed just for you, and rub your shoulders while we soak." 

"Deal," Cronus says. When Bro grabs up the filial pail by its handle, though, he adds the caveat of, "So long as you put that fucking thing somevwhere out of sight. I knowv you lovwe seeing the vworst of your sex toys scattered about like confetti, but that one is officially the exception." 

"Whatever you say, babe."

Bro tosses Cronus his pants, scooped up from the grass, and waves cheerily to the neighbors peering out of doors and windows around his cul-de-sac before they both head back inside. 

-

-


End file.
